Darrell and Bernadine

I did something a little crazy tonight. I gave money and my phone number to a homeless man. My actions went against every ounce of common sense I possess and violated basic rules of ministry.

But I was compelled . . .

Darrell and his companion, Bernadine, had recently arrived in Portland and were trying to "get on their feet." They'd come to the Clackamas Service Center to get a hot meal and find shelter from the biting wind. The Center was jam-packed with thickly-layered, unwashed bodies, but these two really stood out in the crowd.

Darrel and Bernie are Sioux Indians, born and raised on the reservation in South Dakota.

I had come to help serve the evening meal. The dark-skinned couple drifted in quietly and filled the last two spots at the table.

I was instantly drawn to them. After they finished eating and the crowd had thinned, I introduced myself and asked them to tell me their story. Darrell told me they'd left their friends and family in South Dakota to go west and start a new life for themselves. I asked if they were believers.

Darrell dropped his gaze, but quickly looked me in the eye again.

"I was born again in '82," he said slowly, with a trace of sadness in his eyes. "But I've back-slidden."

"He's been to Bible school, though," Bernadine chimed in. Petite and soft-spoken, she looked away from me when she talked, which made me have to move closer to hear her.

"Yeah, that's right," said Darrell. "I'd almost forgotten. I went to school for a while down in Arizona."

The center was closing up for the night, so we didn't have much time to talk. I did get to tell them I'm employed by a mission agency that works primarily with North American Natives. When Darrell heard that news, he grinned and asked for my phone number.

How could I resist?

Before they left, I asked if I could pray for them. They agreed, so I asked the Lord to heal Bernadine of her ailments and keep her safe and warm. And I asked Him to provide Darrell with the perfect job and to fulfill all of His plans and purposes for their lives.

Only I'd mistakenly called him Darren.

After we all said "Amen," Darrell corrected me.

"But that's OK," he said. "God knows my name. And besides, my real name, my Indian name is Two Arrows."

With that, they shook my hand and were gone. Out into the cold, windy streets of Portland.

Back home, everytime the phone rang I ran for it, hoping it was them.

They haven't called yet, but I know I will see them again. All in God's time.

I prayed for Darrell and Bernadine a lot today. And I also did some Internet research as to what Native ministries or churches are available in the Portland area. There's not much, that's for sure--and one website I read stated that the 14,000 or so Native Americans in Portland comprise the city's largest unreached people groups.
Hmmm.
Darrell may be able to put that Bible knowledge he got to use after all . . . I think the Lord has big plans for Darrell and Bernadine.

the art of comfort

I've been surrounded by grieving people lately--and have done a bit of grieving myself. The first few days after I heard the news about my nephew's death (I still can't bring myself to call it murder), I almost felt like it had been my own child's body that had been found on that Alabama jetty. All the emotions that flooded my heart after Jonah's death came crashing down on me like a tidal wave of sorrow. I wept--even wailed at times--for several days. I was shocked by the intense grief I felt for a nephew that I didn't really know.
But I do know what it's like to lose a son.
I called my sister today. She is indignant that life flows blissfully on, while Micah's death has derailed her very existence. She struggles to find the energy to get out of bed, but the demands of her children, job, and relationships do not let up. Good-intentioned folks, who have yet to bury a loved one, give her endless advice on how to get on with her life. Shannon is not impressed. As I listen to her, I remember . . .

Not long after our accident, someone gave me a book about the stages of grief. This wasn't a "Christian" book, but I still found it most helpful.
One chapter described 5 phrases that should never be uttered to a grieving person; the author referred to these statements as "the five awful kindnesses." To the best of my recollection, they were:
1. It was God's will
2. It was for the best
3. Cheer up, things could be worse
4. I understand just how you feel
5. Maybe God is trying to teach you something

And sure enough, we endured each of these awful kindnesses. I can still remember Carol, a good friend of mine, sitting by me bed and saying, "Shawn, I know just how you feel." I knew that Carol hadn't lost any children--or any other close family members, for that matter. And as I lay there with a fractured femur and two broken tibias, I pondered the fact that she'd never broken a bone. She had put her dog to sleep a few months earlier, but I didn't think that was in the same category as our loss. I knew Carol meant well, but I was really glad when she left that day!
The other incident that really rankled me happened shortly after our accident. Another friend, a mature sister in the Lord, came to visit me in the hospital. Thinking she was someone I could trust with my deepest pain, I vented to her my struggles with God.
"Maybe there is some kind of sin in your life that He is dealing with," she said in response to my complaints, looking me square in the eye.
"And cheer up," she comforted, "things could be worse. At least your two other children were spared."
(I have no actual memory of what happened next, but Greg said he knew I was going to be OK because I cussed at her).
Even at the time, I knew my friend was trying to be encouraging. She was trying to point out the positives in our tragedy--to help me look on the "bright side" of things. Before our accident, I wouldn't have acted much differently--I was always quick to plaster scripture "bandaids" on mortal wounds. Her words--like mine--were spoken in ignorance. And I forgave her, but resolved to never say such stupid things to another hurting person again.

My humble advice to those who want to comfort the grieving?

1. Listen . . . you really can't go wrong with this tactic!
2. Look for practical ways to help--the grieving person is using all their energy just to get through the day. People from our church helped us out in so many practical ways--from bringing meals to cl
1eaning the house to taking us to our doctor's appointments.
3. Love on them. Give lots of hugs. Send cards and make phone calls. Remember difficult days (birthdays, anniversaries of the deceased). Stay close--don't let fear keep you away.
4. Lift them up in prayer--especially that the peace and comfort of God would permeate their broken hearts.
5. Laugh! This might sound strange, but we so looked forward to our friends who made us laugh. There's healing in humor, and we found that laughter was truly the best medicine at times.

I still don't think I'm the best comforter in the world (I have this terrible urge to "fix" everything), but I made my sister laugh today and I know that she will be OK.
But if you read this, please pray for Shannon. The journey through the Valley of the Shadow of Death can be a long and lonely road . . .

THE DAY I STOPPED HATING THE CHURCH

I've had so many God-encounters in Alaska that I could write a book about them. (And maybe someday I will!) One of the more significant events was the day I stopped hating the church.
It happened the summer of 2002. Greg had recently resigned from the church he had pastored for three years in Central Oregon. It had been the third in a string of disastrous church experiences, and we were done with the whole pastoral ministry thing. Life was too short to live in that kind of turmoil!
But then a friend of ours, an elder at the community church in Homer, Alaska, called and asked if Greg would be willing to come and just preach for the summer (while the current pastor tended to his commercial fishing business). No strings attached, we were told. The whole family could come and live in the parsonage while Greg preached for the summer. We could stay on if we wanted--or we could head back to Oregon come fall.
We've always loved Homer--it had been a favorite fishing/vacation spot for us when we lived in Anchorage. The kids were all thrilled to go--and so was I, as long as I wasn't expected to be involved in church stuff. I just wanted to hike and fish, lick my wounds and enjoy my family.
But God had other plans.
I'd only been in Homer for a week when I was kidnapped and taken by force to a Beth Moore conference in Anchorage. Well, not technically kidnapped (there were no guns or blindfolds involved), but I went very much against my will at the insistence of several brazen church ladies. I had never heard of Beth Moore and had no interest in getting to know the gals from Community church.
But I went home a changed woman.
I don't know if you've ever been to a Beth Moore conference, but my first impression of her was: Barbie doll. She came prancing out in a lime green pantsuit, big blonde hair and a killer smile. Women were on their feet, cheering and snapping pictures of her and it took all my self-discipline not to flee the place. But as soon as Beth started speaking I knew that the Lord had drug me to this conference for a reason. He had some definite things to say to me.
Beth Moore hears the Lord like few people I know. She told us she'd been searching the scriptures early that morning, asking the Lord what He wanted her to share later that day. She opened to the verse in James that commands, "Do not let the sun go down on your anger." She felt the Lord told her that He would be present that evening to heal people from their hurt and anger, but then He asked her, "Beth, do you know what day this is?"
"Um, it's June 21st, Lord." she replied.
"And what's significant about this day?" He continued.
"It's summer solstice, and the longest day of the year," Beth replied.
And then it dawned on her that in Anchorage, AK, the sun never really goes down on this day. And that the Lord was intent on delivering all who were willing from their bitterness and rage.
As she spoke, I argued with God.
"LOrd, you know I've forgiven those who have hurt me," I reminded Him. "I am not angry at those people anymore."
"I know you have forgiven individuals," He answered, patiently. "But have you forgiven the church? Will you always be so bitter toward My Bride?"
Scales fell from my eyes and I saw my wretched heart. I hated the church! I had filed for divorce and moved on, vowing never to look back. My heart was pierced as I realized the pain I had caused Jesus by rejecting His Bride.
Tears of genuine repentence fell that night, but there was more . . .
"You need to ask forgiveness," the Lord directed.
"Who do I ask?" I argued. "The only church I'm connected to now is Homer Community, and these ladies don't know me. I'll look like an idiot if I ask them to forgive me for hating the church!"
But He prevailed and later that night, when all the ladies got together to eat snacks and talk about the evening, I spoke up.
I briefly described our recent ministry experiences and shared with the women what the Lord has spoken to me that night.
"I need to ask you all to forgive me," I continued. "To forgive me for hating the Bride of Christ, the church."

One of the elders wives rushed over to me and laid her hand on my shoulder.

"Of course we'll forgive you," she said softly. "We are so glad the Lord brought you to us."

And all of the women surrounded me, placed their hands on me and let God's love jand forgiveness ust flow through them.

In that moment, I loved them back--and the church that they represented.

And by the end of the summer, I'd fallen in love with that little church in Homer--and the Lord had healed and prepared my heart for next thing He had for us back here in Portland.

She may not yet be without spot or blemish . . .

but I DO love His bride.

The Great Yellowstone Fire of '88

I once had a dream toward the end of a very difficult ministry. What Greg and I had imagined to be the "perfect ministry fit" actually ended up being the "perfect storm," and we were being sucked into the raging maelstrom. No matter how hard we tried to navigate the tempest using God's principles, it was obvious that the ship was breaking up and it was time to go for the lifeboats. It was during this season the dream came:

I found myself attempting to clean up after a worship service in the home of one of our elders. It had been an odd service, very chaotic and unsettling. I didn't recognize anyone on the worship team (some of them seemed more goblin-like than human) and they had played strange, discordant instruments. I was quite relieved when the service ended and the people dispersed. Until I saw the terrible mess that was left.
Rocks, sticks and rubbish lay in heaps about the room. I began picking up sticks and stones and trying to arrange them into orderly piles. I was growing weary of my task when I noticed an old vacuum cleaner--kind of like the old Electrolux canister-- in the corner. I grabbed it, thinking I could vacuum up the smaller bits of debris and get done faster.
When I turned on the machine, however, gasoline poured out of it! The harder I tried to clean up the mess, the messier things became. Once the room was doused with gas, something caused a spark and the room I'd been trying to salvage went up in flames. I fled the house and watched the destruction with dismay.
As I awoke from the dream, however, I heard the Lord say:
"As the Yellowstone fire burned away the old growth and made way for the new, so I am doing in My church."

Having lived at the eastern entrance to Yellowstone in the early nineties, I felt I understood what the dream meant. The Yellowstone fire of 1988 had raged out of control for weeks and threatened to consume the park at times, but had eventually burned itself out. Over 45% of "America's firstborn National Park" had been scorched, but many experts concluded that the land was more blessed than harmed by the fire.

"Fire is the best thing that can happen to aspens," wrote biologist Ted Williams. "Five hundred trees can sprout up in an area where there was only one tree before a fire. Fire stimulates the root system to send forth suckers that grow into new trees. It has been noted that the aspens have been vanishing from Yellowstone. That's because their roots have simply been waiting for fire to replenish their growth."

And another expert noted:

"Many people thought that Yellowstone would never recover. Scientists, however, knew that fire was a necessary part of the cycle of life in a forest. Life would not only go on, but would also benefit from the fire. The fires left large patches of cleared ground opened to the sun. Seeds released from pinecones took root almost immediately. Lodgepole pine seedlings began to grow at the rate of an inch or two per year. Wildflowers were abundant by the following spring, and the grasses and shrubs were a rich green. Nutrients from the ash caused the vegetation to prosper. Yellowstone was far from dead!"

Not long after I had that dream, we left that church and it appeared to burn to the ground. But ten years later, new life can be spotted peeking up from the ashes and there is room for much growth now that the shadow of the diseased and dying "old guard" has been removed. What felt like a death sentence at that time was actually a prelude to new life. It is a repeated and observable cycle, both in the natural and spiritual realms.

So, what motivated me to blog about a decade-old dream today? Greg preached at a dying church yesterday and it stirred up some long-buried memories.

I shed a few tears during the service, but took comfort in remembering that it gives the Lord pleasure to raise up beauty from ashes and to turn our deepest mourning into a wild dance of joy.

Isn't that just His way?

snow day!!!!!

Hurray for snow days! When Greg brought me my cup of coffee yesterday (he delivers the goods while I'm still in bed!), he told me to peek out the window.

"It's a winter wonderland out there!" he said, sounding like an excited young boy.

While I sipped my coffee, he left for his daily workout at the gym. He was back in 30 minutes, with a Starbucks latte' in hand.

"The roads are so slick, people are sliding off the road everywhere! I don't think you should go to work today!" he informed me.

As it turned out, most of Portland didn't go to work yesterday. Or today, for that matter. Nearly all of Portland's schools were closed, much to the students' delight. We puttered around all morning, drinking coffee in our PJ's (Danielle and I) and watching cars sliding into each other on TV. Yellie even baked a crumb cake.

At about 11 a.m., Krispin showed up at the backdoor, looking like a frozen Russian poet. The brave lad had bicycled from Multnomah to our house--a 12 mile trip that took him 2 hours. He was wearing tennis shoes and a thin fleece jacket.

Ah, the things we do for love!

After Krispin warmed up a bit, we decided to have a snow adventure and took off for the Safeway shopping center. The intersection of 122nd and Sunnyside turned out to be one of the iciest in the Portland area yesterday and the Channel 8 news team was getting all the action on camera. Vehicles were sliding, kids were sledding, people were cross-country skiing across the snowy parking lots--the atmosphere was rather carnival-like. Even the folks who were stranded were of good cheer, many of them swapping stories while they sipped hot drinks from the corner Starbucks. At least they weren't closed!

That evening, our neighbors came over to show us the ultrsound pictures of their baby. They'd celebrated their snow day by making a little snow family in their front yard, complete with a wee snow-baby with a little blue bib. Since we normally don't get enough snow in Portland to make a decent snow man, let alone a snow family, I captured their day's work on film.

I'm working from home today, but I think I'll take a break in a bit and maybe try my hand at making a snow dog . . .

growing pains

As of last Thursday, January 11, 2007, my parental status forever changed. Candyce--my baby--turned 21 and eagerly took upon herself the mantle of adulthood, leaving me childless.
My life will never be the same.
Throughout most of the '80s, I thought my world would always be awash in a sea of formula and diapers, baby wipes and teething biscuits. I couldn't remember how it felt to finish a sentence, a meal, or a good night's sleep. In every family photo during that era, I appear to be exhausted, which was, in fact, the case.
I remember listening to Focus on the Family and hearing Dr. Dobson trying to persuade the millions of mothers of toddlers who listened to his show not to strangle their children.
"Before you know it, they'll be grown and gone," he said with that know-it-all tone of his.
I didn't believe a word of it, at least not until last week, anyway.
Where did those years go--and why can't I remember them better? I wish there were some sort of pill I could take which would provide instant recall. How did we celebrate Lindsay's second birthday? What did we do the day Candyce got baptized? When did Danielle decide to hate fish?
What did Lindsay wear her first day of high school? How badly did Candyce pulverize her opponent during her first Tae kwon do tournament? When was Danielle's first Agnes United performance?
What were Jonah's last words to me?
So many wonderful memories my poor little brain just cannot contain.
If I'd truly known how quickly those years would fly by and how easily I would forget such precious moments with my children, I think I would have video-taped every minute of our lives together.
Yes, even the things I did wrong. So I would know what to ask forgiveness for--and what not to do with my grandchildren.
Oh, I know I have glorious memories in the making ahead of me. I can't wait to have sons-in-law, grandbabies, and many stamps in my passport just from keeping up with my girl's adventures with God.
But, dear reader, if you still have children at home, take my advice.
Savor every moment. Dr. Dobson was right.
Before I knew it, they were all grown up and (most of them) gone . . .

we are family

I'm back from our whirlwind trip to Kansas City. Though the circumstances surrounding our visit were tragic, I was so blessed to be with my family.

I love my family and don't see them nearly enough. It's sad that it takes a death in the family to bring us all together, but I am grateful that we were all able to gather around Shannon and her kids. And I hope and pray that the bonds that were renewed and healed between us over the past few days continue to grow stronger.

The family picture is actually a small miracle. We, meaning my brothers, sisters, dad and me, had not all been together under one roof for over 30 years--and that was at my mom's funeral. After mom died, the glue that had held us together seemed to disintegrate before our eyes. Marriage, school, bad choices, fear, wounded hearts--all these and more stretched the bonds of our family to the breaking point.

But they never broke, and we were all pulled together again to surround my sister with comfort and love.
I sense that the Lord worked deeply in all of our hearts this past week, in ways that we cannot yet comprehend. Seeds of hope and restoration were planted and, in God's time, fruit will grow. Beauty will rise up from the ashes and all will know that even the tragic death of a child can bring God glory.

spread your broken wings and learn to fly . . .

My nephew's body was found under an overpass in Spanish Fork, Alabama this past week. Micah would have been 22 next month. No one really knows what happened. The cause of death was listed as "blunt head trauma" but no clue as to how that trauma occurred. Was he pushed? Did he jump? Was it an accidental fall . . .

We may never know.

Another mystery is his whereabouts since Christmas eve. Micah had been living in Mississippi, working as a plumber's assistant. His employer dropped him off at the airport in Gulf Stream, MI, on Dec. 24th so Micah could fly home and surprise his mom for Christmas.

(His mom is my sister, Shannon).

Shannon wasn't expecting Micah, so had no idea that he was missing until his employer called on Jan. 2nd, wondering why Micah hadn't shown back up for work. She called the police and filed a missing person report.

The police called following day and told Shannon that her description of Micah matched a body that had been found outside Mobile, Alabama. He had only recently expired . . . which raised even more questions. Where had Micah been and what had happened to him since being dropped off at the airport on Christmas Eve?

Again, there may never be any answers.

What we do know is this: Micah is with Jesus. Greg baptized him many years ago in the family's hot tub back in Kansas. Micah had many difficulties in his short life--including repeated abuse from a deranged step-father--but his broken little heart remained soft and he always loved his family. And Jesus.

I find it interesting--and comforting--that Micah's last known words were to the effect that he was going home. He may not have made it back to Kansas, but he is safely home, at last.

Greg and I leave tomorrow to fly back to Kansas, where Greg will do Micah's funeral. My sister wants the Beatle's song, "Blackbird" to be played during the service. It was Micah's favorite song, and a fitting epitaph of his brief life:

"Blackbird singing in the dead of night

Take these broken wings and learn to fly

All your life . . .

You were only waiting for this moment to arise"